


spilt milk and pie

by Rupzydaisy



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Mentions of canon typical violence, Post series 2 finale, Villanelle on a guilt spiral, after Rome, and pie, dramatic flairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:21:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22319314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rupzydaisy/pseuds/Rupzydaisy
Summary: After Rome, Villanelle returns to Paris and moves on.Or at least she tries to.XHer head turns as she walks through the crowds. A glimpse of dark, curly hair, a comfortable old sweater tucked into trousers, an American twang in a woman's voice. With tourists all around, Villanelle finds herself surrounded by unwanted reminders. Her right-hand flexes from where she's stuffed it inside her coat pockets and when she feels the memory of her gun's recoil, she wants to scream.She doesn't scream.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84





	spilt milk and pie

After Rome, Villanelle returns to Paris and moves on. 

Or at least she tries to. 

X

Her head turns as she walks through the crowds. A glimpse of dark, curly hair, a comfortable old sweater tucked into trousers, an American twang in a woman's voice. With tourists all around, Villanelle finds herself surrounded by unwanted reminders. Her right-hand flexes from where she's stuffed it inside her coat pockets and when she feels the memory of her gun's recoil, she wants to scream. 

She doesn't scream. 

Walking at a brisk pace, she leaves as quickly as possible and returns home, not bothering to snipe at the wrinkled old woman on the staircase, although the urge to shove her down and watch her head smack on the concrete floor rises higher than ever before. She takes the steps two and three at a time, and then shuts her door, locking it twice with clumsy hands. 

It was all...unexpected.

She stares at her shaky hands, turning then back and forth. Between the fluttering breaths escaping her lips, there's a gloopy sort of feeling in the pit of her stomach that she can't get rid of. 

_An inch to the right. She would have been scared. Maybe...she would have changed her mind._

The desperation she had felt standing amongst the ruins with Eve staring defiantly back at her seemed like a world away, but it appeared to be trailing her. She feels like a spool of thread unravelling down the stairs because it's shaken her in ways she couldn't have imagined or prepared for. 

X

Her apartment is the same, filled with all the things she wants and likes and buys, and at night when she lies in her bed with silk pillows and butter soft sheets only to toss and turn restlessly for hours, for days, she comes to the unwelcome conclusion that she's not moving on quick enough. 

It's late when she hauls herself out of a sleepless, dreamless bed and into a warm coat and pair of boots, and it's too late to go out and find someone to bring back. The idea of standing on a dance floor and feeling music pulse through her bones and teeth stirs her exhaustion further and only promises a headache. 

Instead she locks up and starts walking, searching for somewhere quiet and still open. The streets are quiet, so she heads towards the tourist areas. While a small Irish pub revving up in the late hours with beer and music spilling on the street seems like her only option, she turns the corner and sees a cafe in the style of an American diner still open. Inside most of the chairs are stacked onto the tables, and there's a single waitress slumped on the counter with glazed eyes. 

It appears quiet enough, so Villanelle pushes open the door and the bell above announces her presence, but not as loudly as the squeak of her boots on the mopped lino. She immediately regrets walking in when she sees a family of five, two parents and their three children, all American, sitting by the front door. The smell of their cheeseburgers and milkshakes make her stomach turn, and she thinks about turning around and walking back out. But the waitress perks up and Villanelle didn't want to walk anymore, so she takes a seat at the table furthest from the bratty children and their squabbling with the intention on buying a coffee. 

"Here's the menu, mains and sides at the front, then drinks, and then desserts. _Please_ don't make me say it in French." The young American waitress stares down at her with a pleading expression, searching for some hint of understanding until Villanelle nods, flipping it open to the back. 

"What food can I smell?" 

The waitress brushes back her dark hair and inhales deeply. "Fries. Fries. More fries. And maybe some of the apple pie that's just come out of the oven?"

Villanelle listens to the twang in the girl's accent and feels something stir inside sharply, sharp like a knife not a spoon. It makes her heart lurch, just as it had done when she had her hands in the American tourist's hair way back when while breathlessly calling her Eve between hickeys.

"I'll have that." 

The American girl teeters on the spot, and then turns without replying. A few minutes a plate with a slice of hot apple pie and a scoop of vanilla ice cream slides in front of Villanelle. A moment later, a mug of hot milk joins it, and she looks up, utterly confused by it and the waitress simply shrugs back at her. 

" _Sur la maison._ Or whatever you guys say in French. You just look like you need it. My mom always said a warm glass of milk and a midnight snack could make things better, at least for the night...and then, well new dawn, new day." 

Villanelle nods slowly and the waitress walks off without another word, leaving her to sink her fork into the flaky crust and the soft, sweet apple pieces. By the time she drains the mug, she's feeling sleepy enough to try her bed again and sleep without screaming her love and her anger at Eve in her dreams over and over again. 

X

_Clink._

Another empty bottle of wine drops into the bin. 

_Smash_

Another empty bottle of wine drops from the rooftop to crash into the pavement. 

_Pop._

Another cork from a bottle of champagne hits the ceiling and she drowns her _feelings_ in the torrent of sharp, sour bubbles. 

X

She returns to the diner again, taking her seat and giving her order to the waitress who scurries off for a plate and a mug. The girl is clever enough to keep herself busy and Villanelle prefers to eat in peace while watching the street outside, but when a wet cloth slaps down on the table behind her, she sighs and turns, waiting expectantly for the conversation to follow. 

"You've been coming here a lot."

"Yes. And?" 

"Do you really like pie that much? Or are you-" 

"Yes?"

The girl leans in to whisper loudly, "You know, comfort eating?"

Villanelle stares at her before deciding on the shortest explanation. "I lost someone. She was American. I think she would have liked your pie."

"Oh, sorry to hear that." The girl shakes her head apologetically, "I didn't mean to be nosy."

"You did." Villanelle tells her bluntly, scraping her fork against the plate to scoop up a flake of crust with a too wide smile that sends the girl scurrying back behind the counter. 

X

She stands in her bathroom with all the lights on and gently presses the shadows underneath her eyes. Her fingers brush against her soft skin, turned sallow with a lack of sleep and the usual brightness illuminating her. 

She tips her head sideways, left and right, examining her reflection from every angle.

Not so long ago she had done the same and felt thoroughly satisfied with what she had seen. _Stunning. Beautiful. Mysterious. Dangerous_. 

Now there's only one thought on her mind, and the resignation of it weighs on her unlike any other kill she had committed before.

"Guilty." 

X

"Pie." Villanelle says to the waitress before the American girl even has a chance to hand her the menu. "And hot milk, like before."

"Oh? Can't sleep again?" 

Villanelle pauses and looks back at the girl properly, taking in the over-starched apron and her washed out cheeks. _Exchange student, homesick, missing mommy, with some money for those heels but not enough to get a decent haircut._

"We're out of apple. There's blueberry and I think, one last slice of strawberry."

"You think?" 

"Well, yeah." 

"Strawberry." Villanelle says, leaning back in her chair, feeling the girl's attention skim over her expensive coat, expensive dress, and her sleek blonde hair. She enjoys it, as always.

She makes it halfway through the pie when her eyes start watering and her hand slips backwards against the plastic tabletop. For a split second, Villanelle assumes she’s been poisoned, but then her eyelids droop lower and a big yawn escapes her mouth. Her elbow drags backwards on the table when she covers her mouth, knocking the mug clean off the surface to shatter loudly on the floor. She jumps in her chair, alert once more, and scowling at herself. 

“That’s the hot milk for you.” The waitress comments quietly as she pulls out a mop to soak up the half a glass of milk dripping onto the floor. “Still, it’s not enough to cry over, right?”

“No, there’s other things for that.” Villanelle rubs at her eyes and stands, dropping down a handful of change and leaves without saying another word. 

X

"I'm haunted," she tells herself. 

And then she wraps herself in a new green scarf, puts on a diamond encrusted pair of sunglasses, and waltzes out to her favourite boutiques. 

The perfect dress hangs in the window. It is a culmination of frothy black silk and sombrely tight sleeves, perfect in the same way as all of her other purchases hanging in her wardrobe at home were, including a plain white shirt that is boring and completely forgettable and a slinky emerald green dress she once wore to stick a knife between a politician's third and fourth rib at an alpine lodge party for the rich and richer. 

Villanelle walks all the way to the Seine in her new black dress and stands there until the sun sets just thinking about all the things she could have done with Eve. She could have changed a little, and it would have been enough, because she had felt more alert, more alive, with Eve chasing after her. The rush of the chase had kept her on her toes, made her more daring. She felt _desired_. It had been different. 

They could have gone to Alaska and holed up in a small cabin surrounded by snowdrifts that glittered in the sunrises and sunsets. _It would have been so romantic._

She daydreams it all, vividly and wildly, and lets it go, ripple after ripple until her still waters return and the _want_ has ebbed away. 

X

Konstantin is waiting for her when she returns from the supermarket, barely laden down with actual groceries and watches as she pulls out wine and a slightly melted box of ice cream. He tuts at her openly, stepping aside as she fills up her cupboards and puts the wine away to chill. 

“What have you been doing?” He scrutinises her, taking in the state of the room, and he doesn't need to look for long. "You need a new girlfriend, or a boyfriend." 

She spins on the spot, replying with a deadpan look. "I do, don't I?"

"No more moping around, Villanelle. You are a special young girl with the whole world at your feet. You need to forget her. Forget Eve Polastri, and do what you do best, huh?"

“Forget?” She bites her lip. “I don’t want to.” 

He stares at her for a long, long moment, which he only does when he’s hiding something. She’s about to press him for more information but he nods in agreement, which just piques her suspicions further. 

“I-”

"-but first, new assignment for you.” He cuts in before she can say anything, flicking a new postcard at her head. It catches her cheek and gives her an invisible papercut that smarts for the rest of the trip every time she tries to smile. 

X

She goes back to the diner after the assignment was completed sporting a black eye. Her mark had made a spur of the moment decision to hire a bodyguard who was fairly handy with his fists. But, it hadn't stopped her, and she had arrived back in Paris with a healthier bank account balance and a growling stomach. 

"Pie and-"

"Milk. Got it." The waitress finishes her sentence off for her and slips back behind the counter. "It's gooseberry this time. Don't ask me why, the cook found them cheap at the market this morning."

Villanelle twists in her chair to follow her, eyes dark and curious. Her gaze meets the American girl's own and she gives a small twist of her mouth in acknowledgment before crossing her legs and leaning sideways in her chair. The burning question humming at the back of her mind every time she visits arises again, and Villanelle can't stop herself from saying it aloud this time. 

"Where do you buy your clothes from?"

The girl blinks in confusion and twiddles with her shirt collar. "I brought them from home, I'm American. Mall clothes, nothing like the boutiques you find over here."

"I _never_ would have guessed." Villanelle tells her, heavy sarcasm leaking through, but the girl just shrugs and delivers the pie. 

She returns a few minutes later with her drink and looks down at herself, comparing her own clothes with Villanelle's black velvet dress and the element twist of her hair neatly pinned with a clasp studded with real rubies. 

Her hands pull at her sleeves to straighten them out, and then brush down the front of her apron. "They're alright, aren't they?" 

"Alright?" Villanelle scoffs and then began to shovelled mouthfuls of pie without an explanation.

When she leaves, she slides a fifty euro note under her empty plate with a note written on the back of the receipt. 

_Get a haircut first._

X

She dances the night away, heart pounding to the sound of the music reverberating through the floor and straight into her bones. She dances in the midst of bodies, arms reaching out to touch her, hips moving past and then twirling back, and there's lips close to hers and fingers brushing over her sweaty skin. 

Villanelle brings them home, or goes along with them, men and women with sharp cheekbones and startled eyes. Those with dark, curly hair, who do a double take when they catch sight of her in the bathroom mirror when she's reapplying her lipstick. 

It's not the same. It's never the same. 

X

She sits down at her usual table and the waitress gives her a nod from behind the counter, dropping her cloth and rifling in her apron pocket for her notepad. 

"Pie." Villanelle says expectantly, gazing out of the window at the pattering rain. 

"Blueberry or apple?" 

" _Hmmm,_ blueberry." 

"Coming right up." The waitress gives a mock salute and Villanelle nods in approval at the girl's new haircut, modelled on her own. " _A la mode_ , right?"

"Something like it." She snorts back as the plate and mug were customarily placed in front of her. 

She pauses when her phone trills with a message alert. With her elbows on the table and her fork raised to cut through the deliciously sweet pie crust, she'd normally ignore it, but she reads that it's from Konstantin so with an eye roll she picks it up to read the message. 

_Look at who's been spotted._

Underneath his text was a photo, taken at some distance, but still unmistakable. 

Villanelle jerks violently in her depths of her shock. Her elbow hits the mug, sending it smashing onto the floor. Milk spills out around her heels and she knows it, vaguely, in a far-off kind of way, and the fork follows to tinkle against the lino, but her fingers grip tighter around her phone like it's the only thing pinning her to the earth. 

"Eve Polastri...you're _alive_." She breathes out slowly, calm returning to her body as she flicks her thumbs out to enlarge the small image. 

“Are you okay?” The waitress asks, rushing over with a pan and brush to sweep the glass up. 

"I'm _more_ than fine." As she stares at the blurry photo, her original surprise turns on its heel and is folded up small until it barely exists anymore. “Tell me, how long does one of your pies last?"

There’s a tinkle of glass from by her feet as the waitress sweeps the mess away, and when she looks up, she gives an awkward, uneasy smile in the face of Villanelle’s blinding one stretching from ear to ear. "Uh, a day or two, I guess."

"I'll take one to go."

"A whole one?" 

"Yes." Villanelle’s smile stretches wider as the light comes flooding back into her eyes. 

X

When Eve opens the side door of her safe house to put out the bins, she sees a courier in black leather and helmet walking up the main pathway, having left their motorbike at the end of the line of grey slabs. She pauses at the side gate and watches, utterly hidden in the darkness, because she had been told countless times it was secure and that no one would find her there. 

The courier drops off a medium-sized white box on her doorstep, rings the doorbell an obnoxious _six_ times and then saunters back to the motorbike, speeding off as quickly as they had arrived.

It feels surreal. 

It feels risky and highly dangerous. 

And yet she walks around over the gravel in her house slippers and holds her breath as she picks up the box. It's lighter than she expects, and she slowly lifts the lid, breathing in a sweet, cinnamon-laced smell. 

On top of an apple pie that's missing a slice there's a small note in familiar writing, _Sorry baby, it was just too good x_

**Author's Note:**

> title from Waiting for Smith's 'Trade it in'


End file.
